


vera et visiones

by bloodsparks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Radio, Episode: s04e09 I Know What You Did Last Summer, Experimental Style, Gen, POV Second Person, Pre-Episode: s04e09 I Know What You Did Last Summer, Prophetic Visions, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 18:38:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12710631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsparks/pseuds/bloodsparks
Summary: Anna's experience from when the visions begin and the start of episode s04e09.





	vera et visiones

**Author's Note:**

> this was beyond interesting to write!

Sometimes you struggle to get to sleep. You’ve always had trouble falling asleep, but lately it’s gotten worse. You stay up to strange and terrible hours, echoes of whispers and one single scream floating around your head.

_Dean winchester is saved._

_dean Winchester is saved._

_dean winchester Is saved._

_dean winchester is Saved._

You’ve never heard the name Dean Winchester before, but the mention of it brings a strange peace to your being, like it’s something you should know. Like it’s something that’ll keep you safe. Like it’s something that’ll do you good. 

Your hospital room is bare, but you see stained glass along the white plaster walls. Proclamations of the Lord’s Holy Host. Choirs of seraphim. The Archangels and their swords. Scrolls of prophecy. Transcripts of the Beginning and the End. 

Some days are better than others. On average, you get about four hours of sleep each night. You have dreams, and then you don’t. Flashes of clarity don’t stay for very long, and the white noise starts to form a pattern. 

_GLORIA IN EXCELSIS DEO,_ it says, and you don’t realise how afraid you are until after the shaking starts, and the doctors give you medication to stop it. 

“It won’t help,” you tell them, “It won’t help until I tell them what I need to.”

They ask what you need to tell them, and you don’t have an answer. You need to tell them of the danger that’s coming, of how you can’t keep a meal down but have the strength to take on the armies approaching. You need to warn them, to keep them from an enemy. 

The whispers become talks, and the talks become screams. You can’t turn it off now; can’t turn it into silence like you used to be able to. It’s like the switch broke, and now you’re stuck on whatever option you last chose. Except it wasn’t you who did the choosing. 

You don’t understand the language they babble in, but you understand the urgency they cry of. _There is no time_ , you murmur to yourself as an echo of the cries you hear, _There is no time, They are all breaking Open one by one_.

The day you discover the crayons and sketchpad, something inside you clicks into place. The doctors are proud, call it Art Therapy and smack a ‘healed’ sticker on your chart. You want to laugh. You aren’t anywhere close to being cured, but you’ll let them say what they want to say.

You need time to be alone. You need more time than you have, and you’ll be damned if you spend another second staring out the window, wasting what little time you have. 

The colours do wonders for you. You draw the church window you were raised staring up into, the glass mosaic you’ve always loved. 

You sketch the runes that you see as shadows on your hands when the sun sets and rises. They make no sense to you, but you have faith that someone who can read them is coming. The doctors ask your parents about the sigils.

_Has she been involved in the occult?_ (Not that we know of.)

_Was she ever part of a Satanic group?_ (She’s never been into that kind of thing.)

_Do you recognise these signs?_ (No.)

Of course they don’t recognise the signs. You don’t either.

But you draw and write them down diligently, like a pupil learning from a Master. The notes are important - maybe not to you, but they are. You can feel it. 

You rarely have good or bad days anymore, time flies by in a blur of sounds and sounds and faces, and you hardly pay attention to the clock in the corner that you could barely take your eyes off when you first arrived in the ward. Some mornings you eat, some nights you sleep. It all adds up somehow. 

The next few days are hard ones. You wake up from a brief sleep with a pounding headache, something that only happens when the visions that follow are dark and malicious. 

You expect something horrible, but no words can describe the horror that possesses your mind. Blood, gore, every corner of Hell you can imagine. All of it in your head, and a single name passing through like it’s the daily special.

LILITH LILITH LILITH LILITH LILITH LILITH

You don’t have a face to match to the name, but it’s okay. You never want to see or hear of it again. In a desperate attempt to make it stop, you scribble her vessel - a little blue-eyed blonde-haired girl, how horrendously poetic - onto your sketchbook and then flip the page so fast it nearly tears from the binding. 

The doctors aren’t used to you demanding a sedative, and they say they have to run a couple tests before they can administer any kind of medication. You scream in impatience, needing absolution, needing purification. 

After that, you crash for the next three days. Drifting in and out of consciousness is never fun, but you take it gladly and welcome the warm arms of sleep every time you go back under. 

In your dreams are soft whispers; activity in a forest that otherwise remained quiet and stagnant. Rivers that once ran dry begin to flow again, but not with the blood and honey that you expect. They flow with fresh, crystalline water, and you gulp as much as your body can hold. You have never been so thirsty. 

When you wake, the scratches on your arms have healed and the bags beneath your eyes have gone. The doctors say a professional is there to see you: to try and understand your case. You attempt to talk them out of it, say you’re really not in the mood and nothing you say can be trusted. 

They brush you off, and you curl into yourself and stare into space. The sunlight filters through your eyelashes and forms upside-down crosses all along the walls. 

The psychologist arrives two hours later. You’re feeling better, but still not well enough to have a conversation with someone who won’t believe you. You’re tired of the unbelievers, and wonder if this was the way the Lamb of God felt as His preachings fell upon empty ears and hardened soil. 

Nevertheless, you answer the doctor’s questions. You see the uncertainty on her face, and you wonder if she’s expecting you to be more sick. _You_ expect you to be more sick. You’re telling her of your latest visions, and what you think they mean.

Then the door opens and in comes an attendant, but something is wrong. 

Something is wrong. With. His face. 

You scream, and you scream, and it begins. 


End file.
